


Warm Winters

by paint_me_a_revolution



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arya is a little shit, Family Fluff, but i won't be going into detail, holiday fluff, slight warning for past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-27 09:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18736639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: Arya hadn't intended to come home for the Winter Festival, but she's glad she did.





	1. Homecoming

     Arya had tried to avoid coming home for the holidays. It wasn’t that she hated the holiday season—impossible, what with the multitude of sweet treats and presents and the wine her father started brewing at the last breath of winter for the occasion—but she hated her mother’s nagging, her sister’s disapproving looks. Most of all, she hated the ritual of it all. If there was anything Arya despised in life, it was stuffing herself into fancy dresses and pretending to pray while her mother pinched her elbow and begged her to behave. But, well, she’d promised. And Jon had promised to take her clubbing, now that she was old enough. So with a pit in her stomach and almost nothing in her shabby suitcase, Arya climbed the porch steps and rang the bell.

     Her mother answered. Catelyn Stark was as beautiful as she’d been six months ago when Arya left, with her dark red hair pinned neatly back and a white apron over a dark blue dress. Arya didn’t think she was wearing makeup, but she wasn’t very good at telling those sorts of things. “Hi, mum,” she said. Catelyn’s face lit up like an altar during Winter Festival. Which, well…

     “Arya!” she cried. Turning over her shouder, she shouted into the house, “Ned! Arya’s home!”

     There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Arya braced herself, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from staggering when Rickon barrelled into her. “Let me get inside first!” she protested, but Rickon latched on even tighter. “Come on, I’m bloody freezing.”

     “Rickon, let go,” Catelyn ordered. Rickon stepped back with a hiss. Arya ducked around him and into the foyer, which was decked in garlands for the festival. “Take your shoes off, Arya,” her mother continued. “I just had that carpet cleaned a week ago.”

     Arya looked down. It was the same ugly carpet the Baratheons had given Catelyn as a gift one summer. The flowers looked wilted, which was probably why Cersei had picked it. She seemed to have it out for the Starks, but her staunch Lannister upbringing kept her from admitting it outright. Instead, she filled every empty corner of their home with ugly trinkets that Catelyn was too polite to throw away, and the children’s wardrobes with hideous costumes that they’d be forced into at one time or another.

     A firm hand clasped Arya’s shoulder. She whirled around. “Dad!”

     He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her into the air like a ragdoll. “It’s good to see you!” Ned said, muffled by her shoulder. He put her down and stepped back. “I didn’t think you were really coming. You look good _._ ” A pause, wherein her father looked her up and down and beamed proudly, and then he added, “Healthy.”

     “Well, I’ve been working out.” Kicking off her boots at the door, Arya made her way into the well-lit living room. There was a tree in one of its corners, covered in tinsel and unlit candles, and a pile of presents that almost reached the coffee table. A few fold-out card tables had been set up against the back wall, dressed neatly in Cat’s best tablecloths. It was already laden with more food than Arya could eat in a year. “Are we expecting anyone?” she asked with a curious glance at her mother and father. Ned shrugged, while Catelyn’s face lit up like her gaudy tree.

     “The boys are each bringing someone home,” she said excitedly, “even little Rickon! And Sansa’s got someone she wants us to meet!”

     Arya scowled. “Is Jon bringing the army, then? I don’t think even a dozen people could eat this much food.”

     Catelyn matched her daughter’s expression tenfold. “Arya,” she scolded.

     Something clattered over the threshold. “She did it because she heard you were coming, you fat cow.” Bran came to a rolling stop next to Arya, grinning. “Thought I’d better come see what the racket was about,” he continued. “I’m a little disappointed; I thought it would be Jon.”

      Arya smacked him upside the head. “You little shit,” she said. Catelyn hissed through her teeth. “Where’s Sansa? Is she back yet?”

     “You’re the first,” Bran said. He looked up at her, and it struck Arya that he’d _grown_ in the months since she’d last seen him. His face had grown into its imbalance, his eyebrows—thick, like hers—resting over a pair of intelligent brown eyes. She smiled fondly. “I’m going to the Godswood,” he continued. “You can join me if you’d like.”

     Well, that was new. “I think I’ll unpack,” Arya told him. She pinched his cheek, which earned her the same angry yelp it always had, and turned back to the foyer, where her bags were waiting. “Dad, will you give me a hand?”

     Ten minutes later, after much grumbling and thumping and swearing, Arya was settled on her old bed. Her room was the same as she’d left it, except for the freshly made bed with its neatly tucked corners and evenly folded sheets. The walls were still covered almost floor to ceiling with old band posters, only slivers of blue paint peeking through. Her guitar sat behind her desk, the black case covered in a generous coating of dust. Arya was sure that if she looked outside, she’d find the remnants of the pulley system she and Bran had rigged up between their two rooms after his accident. The memory of pulling soggy bits of paper from their little rain-soaked basket made Arya grin; for a moment, she wanted to be a child again, trading secret messages with Bran.

     She didn’t know how long it was before a knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts. Arya glanced up, and a smile split her face when she saw the familiar face looking back at her. “Robb!” she cried, flinging herself across the room and into his arms. “I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow, at least!”

     “We got an early train,” Robb explained.

     “Who’s we?”

     “Me and Theon.”

     Arya wrinkled her nose. “You brought _Theon?”_ she asked. “I thought Mum said you were bringing a date.”

     Robb ran a hand through the mop of auburn curls on his head. “Well,” he said, shuffling his feet on the worn carpet, “Theon kind of… _is_ my date.”

     A laugh burst out before Arya could stop it. She clapped her hand over her mouth and tried to regain her composure, but lost the battle and choked out, “ _Theon?”_

     Robb bristled. “He’s changed you know,” he said, crossing his arms and looking down the bridge of his nose at Arya. She wondered if he practiced that look in front of the mirror—probably not, or he’d know how ridiculous it looked. “We all have.”

     “I’m not saying he hasn’t changed,” Arya argued, rolling her eyes. “I’m just saying he’s…well, he’s _Theon Greyjoy.”_ She bit her lip, thinking. “Where is he, anyway?”

     “The trip wore him out.” Robb smiled fondly for just a moment before he corrected his expression into a frown. “He’s in my room if you’d like to say hello.”

     Arya wrinkled her nose again. “No thanks. I think I’ll just unpack.” She smiled, a gesture Robb returned, and turned back to staring out the window until the door clicked shut. 


	2. New Faces

      Little by little, Arya heard the house come alive. It took minutes to unpack (mostly because she didn't bother to fold anything, just tossed things into drawers) and hours to work up the courage to go downstairs, so Arya lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars Jon had put up when she was seven and afraid of the dark were still there, dull in the daylight. At a quarter past three, Sansa’s bright voice floated up from the foyer, accompanied by a voice Arya didn’t recognise. Shortly after, Jon’s loud laughter joined the other voices. No one bothered to look for their sister until a quarter to six, when there was a knock on the door, followed by Jon’s voice.

      “Your mother’s looking for you,” he told her. He was dressed in army standard trousers, with heavy black boots and a leather jacket that had seen better days. “What? Not even going to give me a hug?”

      Arya leapt out of bed and threw herself at him. “I fucking missed you,” she mumbled into his chest. One of his hands rubbed her back, the other held her tightly against him. For a moment, they clung to each other like they’d been apart for a hundred years, and then Jon stepped back.

      “I missed you, too,” he said, sounding a more than a little teary. “Gods, has it really been six months?”

      Arya nodded. “Almost to the day.” She furrowed her brow. “What did mum want?”

      Jon frowned. “You’ll have to ask her,” he said. “She didn’t exactly tell me much.”

      Arya probably should have stayed upstairs. Her feet had barely hit the landing before her mother ushered her into the kitchen. “I need your help with the meal,” Catelyn pleaded, looking rather more harried than she had in the morning.

      “Why don’t you ask Sansa?” Arya groused, snatching a deviled egg and shoving it into her mouth. She stared at the plates on the kitchen counters. “Gods, Mum, do you think you made enough food?”

      Catelyn pursed her lips. “You know,” she said tersely, “I don’t think I did.”

      Arya grabbed a plate of appetisers and fled. At the sight of the crowd in the living room, she almost dropped the platter. A dozen or so pairs of eyes turned to look at her curiously. Holding up the platter, Arya said, “Food.”

      Rickon let out a whoop of delight. The blond boy next to Bran giggled. “Well, give it here then,” crowed the redheaded woman to Jon’s left, who Arya had mistaken for Sansa, making violent grabbing motions. Arya crept forward an inch, and then another, until she’d handed the platter over. “Come, sit with us.” The woman patted the cushion next to her. Arya hesitated.

      “I’m supposed to be helping Mum in the kitchen,” she hedged, and heard Catelyn holler back that she was dismissed.

      “Come on, Arya!” Bran drew out the second syllable, Ar _yuh._ She sighed.

      “All right,” she said, sitting in one of the unoccupied chairs, “but if I get in trouble, I’m blaming you.”

      Bran shrugged and gestured for Jon to hand him a deviled egg. “This is Jojen,” he said around a mouthful of food, nudging the young man next to him. He looked about Arya’s age, but he dressed like an old hippie. Arya raised her eyebrows at the shirt he was wearing. It looked like…

      “Is that rope?” she blurted. Jojen beamed.

      “It is,” he said excitedly, straightening up. “I made it myself.”

      “Right.” Her brows went even higher. Of course this was the guy Bran brought home for the Festival. Of course it was.

      Jon cleared his throat. “This is Ygritte,” he said, jerking his chin at the woman next to him. “I think I told you about her.”

      Arya looked at Ygritte, with her high, freckled cheekbones and flaming red hair and said, “You bloody well did not.”

      Ygritte socked his arm. “Wanker,” she hissed, before throwing her head back and laughing so loudly it was a wonder it didn’t wake the dead cats buried in the backyard. “Didn’t want to tell your little sister how we met, Crow?”

      “Crow?” Arya echoed. Jon winced.

“We met at a party,” he said, clearly desperate to change the subject. Ygritte grinned wolfishly.

      “Aye,” she teased, “we met at a party. Sat on the fence, was Jonny, squawking like a damned crow.”

      Jon turned tomato red. “Was not,” he mumbled. He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a shriek from the door. He hastily shoved a bite of deviled egg into his mouth and held out his arms for Sansa to hug him. Arya looked her sister up and down; even hunched over like that, Sansa was taller than Arya could ever hope to be, with long legs and slim, graceful hands and hair only a few shades lighter than their mother’s. Accompanying Sansa was a petite woman with long, curly brown hair, who smiled brightly from the threshold and waited patiently to be introduced. Arya stared at her. She’d seen that face before.

      “Everyone,” Sansa said, straightening up and waving the woman forward, “this is Margaery Tyrell, my girlfriend.”

      “As in _the_ Margaery Tyrell?” Ygritte sat up a little straighter, clearly interested. Sansa nodded. Margaery smiled politely.

      “You know my work?” she said, her voice soft and smooth. A businesswoman’s voice, Arya thought (not that she knew what a businesswoman should sound like).

      Ygritte nodded. “I’ve got a few pieces. They’re not too much, you know?”

      Arya cast a glance at Bran, hoping he might know something she didn’t, but his furrowed brow and pursed lips suggested he was in the dark as much as she was. Jojen was looking at Margaery curiously, his head cocked to the side. Clearly he didn’t know who she was, either. And then…

      “Did you lose someone recently?” Jojen asked. Bran poked him. Margaery looked taken aback.

      “Yes,” she stammered. “My grandfather. How did you…?”

      “Your aura.” Jojen smiled placidly and settled deeper in his chair. Bran had the decency to look aghast. Arya bit her lip to keep from laughing.

      Sansa glanced around the living room. “Where are the dogs?” she asked. “I want to see Lady.”

      “Rickon’s getting them,” Jon said, “on the way back from picking up his girlfriend. They’re at the groomer’s.”

“Can Rickon drive?” Arya asked, surprised. Last she’d checked, 15 was too young to drive anything but a horse in Winterfell.

      “That’s why Dad’s with him.”

      “Well.” Sansa sat delicately on the edge of the couch, between Jon and the deviled eggs. Ygritte patted the spot next to her, a clear invitation for Margaery to sit with them. “What shall we do while we wait for them?”

      Arya grinned. “Truth or Dare.” 


	3. Games and Ghosts

     It had taken the better part of twenty minutes to convince Sansa to play Truth or Dare. “We don’t have any alcohol,” had been her first excuse, and then “Mum’s right next door,” when Arya pointed out that she’d never needed alcohol for a good time. Jon had solved that problem by quietly closing the door between the kitchen and living room, so Sansa had said, “In front of our little brother?”

     “I’m seventeen,” Bran had said haughtily. “And I’ll probably outpace you all.”

     Finally, begrudgingly, Sansa had acquiesced. Now, she sat stiff as a board next to her girlfriend, clutching the hem of her pink suede skirt nervously. “Truth,” she said.

     Arya pretended to think about it. “What’s the worst thing you’ve done while drunk?” she asked, and then waited, tongue between her teeth, for the answer. Sansa turned brick red.

     “That’s not _fair!”_ she whined. “You already know the answer!”

     “Everyone’s waiting.” Arya bounced excitedly. “Come on, say it.”

     Sansa bit her lip, glancing between each of her siblings in turn, and then blurted, “I gave the IR teacher’s assistant a lapdance at a house party.”

     Jon choked. Ygritte cackled. Bran didn’t react at all, simply kept the same blank expression he’d put on when the game started. Smart of him, Arya thought. Jojen looked mildly offended. For a moment, Margaery said nothing, just staring at her girlfriend with a mix of horror and awe. Then, just when Arya thought she might have ruined her sister’s relationship for good, the woman started laughing. She laughed so hard she actually snorted, something Arya would never have imagined her doing in a million years. Sansa’s blush turned blotchy and started to spread down her neck, like she was going to pass out or explode or something.

     “Truth or dare, Arya?”

     She jumped a little, startled, and stared at Bran, who seemed entirely unimpressed with the situation. He opened his mouth to say more, and then cocked his head like he was listening for something. “Oh,” he said. “Dad and Rickon are back.”

     It took less than a minute for Arya to hear them for herself. First were the low, rumbling barks and whines of the dogs, and then the sound of lots of little claws on the hardwood. Something bumped into the closed door, followed by another bump and another. One of the dogs—Shaggydog, Arya assumed, the others were too well trained—scratched at the door and yipped. The handle turned, and Rickon appeared in the doorway, a human barrier between the large dogs and the living room. 

     “You clean up nice,” Arya said, eyeing her little brother’s outfit and trying not to laugh. He was wearing a suit jacket and jeans, with an awful Hawaiian shirt she was sure belonged to their father and a pair of faded blue Chucks. Rickon, oblivious to her mirth, did a little twirl to show it off. The girl behind him giggled.

     With a loud yelp, Nymeria wriggled around the pair at the door and bounded toward Arya. “C’mere, girl!” Arya coaxed, patting the arm of her chair. Summer followed close on Nymeria’s heels, skidding to a halt at the foot of Bran’s chair and standing on his hind legs to kiss Bran’s face. Nymeria clambered onto Arya’s lap, 33 kilos of muscle and fur that nearly crushed her owner into the cushions. Her warm, wet tongue lapped at Arya’s cheeks and chin, her tail wagging excitedly. Blinded by fur, Arya laughed at her siblings’ delighted laughs, and at Jojen’s exclamation of shock as one of the dogs (presumably Summer) leapt at him.

     It took several minutes for the dogs to settle down. Nymeria curled up on the floor by Arya’s feet, her tail thumping rhythmically against the foot of the armchair. Ghost settled between Jon and Ygritte, squinting contentedly. Summer, ever the best behaved of the dogs, was sitting patiently by Bran’s chair, allowing Bran and Jojen to stroke his ears and snout. Lady was, well, a proper lady, tucked up against Sansa’s thigh, and Shaggydog wasted no time in trotting over to the buffet table. He sniffed an empty plate.

     “Rickon!” Catelyn Stark shouted from the door. Arya jumped. “Control your dog, or I will put you both outside for the night.”

     “Shaggy!” Rickon chastised weakly. Sansa snapped her fingers. Shaggydog licked a sausage.

     “Rickon!”

     Rickon laughed and got up to pull Shaggydog away from the table, snagging a sausage as he did to feed to the dog. Catelyn pursed her lips disapprovingly, but focused her efforts on the rest of the room rather than her errant son. “Right, you lot,” she said, “it’s time for supper. Arya, Jon, Sansa, help me move some of the dishes to the table, would you?”

     Groaning, they did. Arya’s arms trembled under the weight of her mother’s famous roast. “Gods, Mum,” she complained as she set it down, narrowly avoiding crushing her fingers under the bottom of the plate, “are you sure Jon isn’t bringing the fucking army?”

     “Arya Stark, you little shit, I know for a fact that you’ll be first at whatever’s left over.”

     Arya spun around. “Theon!” she exclaimed. But as she turned her eyes to him, her stomach dropped. It had been three years since she saw him last, and the man in front of her looked like a shadow of the boy she remembered. Though he still towered over her (nearly everyone did), there was a hunch to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. His chin was tucked toward his chest, and though he’d been quick to tease her while her back was turned, he seemed unable to meet her eyes now that they were face to face. Arya bit her lip. “You look well,” she lied. Theon smiled gratefully.

     “So do you,” he said. Robb, who was apparently attached to Theon by an invisible string, inserted himself between them a little too casually.

     Someone clapped loudly behind them. “Everyone,” Ned called. “Come to the table.”

     Arya buried her questions and found her seat. At least the food would be good. 


End file.
